The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S4E11

Episode Date: October 5, 2014

It's episode 11 of Season 4. We have six tales for you in this episode featuring stories about tormented travellers, boney brutes, and fiendish family folks. The full episode features the following stories. The free version features only the first two tales.  "Room 401" written by Andrew Harmon and read by David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:04:50) "Who Killed Sarah Cooper?" written by C.K. Walker and read by Alexis Bristowe and David Cummings. (Story starts at 00:23:10) "White Bones" written by Anton Scheller and read by Sammy Raynor. (Story starts at 00:37:40) "Red Velvet Cake" written by Alan Harasen and read by Susan Knowles (Story starts at 00:58:10) "For the Glory of God" written by Liam Hogan and read by David Cummings, Jessica McEvoy, and Brian Mansi. (Story starts at 01:16:30) "The Crawlers" written by Chance Patrick and read by David Cummings (Story starts at 01:37:10) Click here to learn more about Anton Scheller Click here to learn more about Alan Harasen Click here to learn more about Susan Knowles Click here to learn more about Liam Hogan Click here to learn more about Chance Patrick Podcast produced by: David Cummings Music & Sound Design by: David Cummings & Brandon Boone "Sarah Cooper" illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski The NoSleep Podcast uses the PSE Hybrid Library exclusively for its sound design. This podcast is licensed under a Creative Commons License 2014. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The sunlight, the frightful. It's time to give into your fear. There will be no sleep. The no sleep pot. The night shift was a boring job, and sometimes my curiosity would drive me to googling guests that seemed a little awl. My small home backed up right to the Ozarks,

and every weekend I went hiking to the woods to clear my mind, always taking the same path by the river, and always coming home refreshed and content. My God, when he was there on the metal tent, table, how I regretted pulling that tooth from his skull. The old woman parted the opening on the top of the bag and began rolling the cold, limp bulk onto the top of the container. We all drifted towards the large plate windows.

The body lay twisted a yard or two to the side of my niece on. Its face was now inches from mine, and I felt its cold breath on my nose as it inhaled and exhale. It's episode 11 of season four. Welcome to the show. I'm your host, David Cummings. We have six tales for you in this episode, featuring stories about tormented travelers,

bony brutes, and fiendish family folks. Well, we have entered the Halloween month of October. I hope everyone is getting prepared for lots of scary funnings. month with horror movie marathons, way too much fun-sized candy, and of course your favorite horror podcast. There's a lot of spooky stuff in store, so get into the spirit of the season. Carve up a jack-o-lantern or two and scare yourself silly. This would also be a great time to

share the podcast with your friends and family and anybody who enjoys this scary time of year. There's a lot more attention given to the horror genre this month, so make sure to let others know about what we do here at the No Sleep podcast. In my opinion, and with apologies to Santa, this is the most wonderful time of the year. I want to introduce you to a very talented graphic artist who has been sharing his talent with us recently. Wukish Godleski has provided the artwork for this episode, along. with last week's artwork for the story the Lucien twins. His artwork this week is for our second story, Who Killed Sarah Cooper?

You can see it on the show notes page of our website, or you can see it as the album art for this episode on your smartphone or MP3 player. I think he'll agree that Wukash is very skilled at capturing the essence of a story in a single image. I'm thrilled that he will be sharing his art with us, at various times this season. And speaking of talented artists,

we have a newcomer to the show who not only provides excellent narration as you'll hear, but is also a talented graphic artist in her own right. Susan Knowles shares her narrating skills with us on our fourth story. You can check out the show notes for links to her online portfolio.

We welcome Susan to the podcast. You know, it's thrilling to be a able to collaborate with so many talented people who share their artistry with us. From writers to narrators to artists and musicians, like my musical collaborator, Brandon Boone. Brandon has done the lion's share of the music this week, as I had plenty of distractions to deal with. What would I do without you, Brandon, and all of our amazing contributors? Well, I can tell you what I can do with them, and that's to let you hear their work. work as we start this week's show. In our first tale, we check into a hotel. We meet a young man

who works the overnight shift and encounters a rather unique individual. As author Andrew Harmon explains, the guest has some rather particular requirements of the hotel staff, along with a predilection for a specific type of 80s pop music. It's music that can often be heard emanating from his room. So let's walk down the hall and see if we can hear it coming from Room 401. Room 401, Franklin Waters, checked in on my night audit shift. I had been working at the Pine Ridge Inn for about eight months, originally during the evenings, but I was offered the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift after a few weeks because the previous

night auditor had graduated college and moved on to a new career. It was mostly uneventful, mostly paperwork. I had my fair share of walk-ins overnight, but Franklin Waters was different. He was a very particular man and had some special requests when I took down his information. First and most importantly, he explained, was that he worked at a very particular man. He worked at night and slept during the day. As a night auditor, I understood his sentiments. He had a groggy look to him, as if he didn't sleep much at all, let alone only during the day. He had drooping, bloodshot eyes and a graying five o'clock shadow.

He was wearing a haul and oats shirt that I commented on, as a mutual fan, and we struck up some polite small talk regarding their songs. His favorite was private eyes. I can go for that, I quipped. He smiled for the first time during the check-in process at my joke, but it didn't last long. His second rule, no housekeeping. This wasn't so peculiar. We had a handful of long-term guests while I worked there, and a lot of them weren't

comfortable with having strangers in their room while they were absent. But Franklin slept during the day and would rather clean up after himself than be woken up by a maid at 11 in the morning. Once again, I get it. I'm a night owl too. The third rule was that we were not to transfer any outside phone calls to his room or even tell someone whether or not he was there. Once again, not so strange. In fact, this was standard procedure at hotels. Guest privacy was taken very seriously by our staff, and so I had no problem assuring him that his stay would be no one's business but his own. He explained that he had recently divorced, and so he wanted peace from his bitch of an ex-wife, as he called her. He made one exception, though.

If his son called, we were to transfer his call immediately. I told him my name was Andrew. He smiled again, this time it lasted longer. Andrew is my son's name too. He explained that he hadn't spoken to his son in over six years. estranged some big fight between them that he wouldn't get into. A sob story. Oh, I was interested, but didn't let on.

His last rule? No one could charge his credit card unless he authorized them to. He would call once a week to give us his consent, and we could hit his card for payment then. None of his requests were out of the ordinary, so we finished up his registration and I sent him on his way. After that, I never saw Franklin again. For the first two weeks, everything was fine with 401.

He called every Friday night to have his credit card charged. He would ask how the night was going. He asked if I had seen the game the previous night. I never knew what game he was talking about. I wasn't big into sports. But on the third week, he failed to call for payment. This happens often at hotels. People forget what day it is, or guests may be low on money,

and try to slip by for a few days until they get a paycheck or a loan. The morning staff monitor balances, type up a friendly reminder letter, and slide it under the door. Room 401 always had their Do Not Disturb sign posted, so management never did more than slide a note under the door and hope to hear back soon. Most of the daytime people were a bit wary of 401 because no one, other than me, had actually seen Franklin. They never heard a peep from his room, never got calls from him, no requests for clean linens or towels. After a while, you'd just assume they're a very private person and forget all about them.

After three days, Franklin still hadn't made a payment, and talk was a buzz in the office about eviction. So that night, I set out my assisting guest, will return shortly sign, and made my way up to the fourth floor. It was around three in the morning, so the hallways were empty. The corridors had recently been painted a dark shade of brown, and the old yellowing wall sconces really left the whole fourth floor very dim. Hotels had always been eerie but fascinating places to me, especially at night. You could walk from floor to floor and never meet a soul, never hear a sound from anyone. If you didn't know better, you might not even remember what floor you're on. They all look the same. All the rooms looked the same. Everything, everything.

is made to be standard, uniform, a repeat of a repeat, of a repeat. Mix that with the long, empty halls that ended at closed doors, and there was just something, I don't know, creepy about the place. 401 was at the very end of the hall, farthest away from the office. As I neared the room, I could hear faint music. As I drew nearer, I made out what it was. was. It was coming from 401. I paused at the door. I always felt awkward knocking on people's doors. The idea of these people living their own lives suddenly interrupted by a banging on the door. The do-not-disturb sign was still on the handle. I knocked anyway. Nothing. I knocked again. waited 30 seconds

knocked again waited a minute there was no answer but the music kept playing I sighed and walked back down to the office for the night I hated being ignored especially when I knew someone was in the room

I grabbed the sheet that had all of the room extension numbers on it and called 401 after a few rings Frank Franklin picked up. I could still hear Hall & Oates in the background when he said hello. Franklin, it's Andrew down at the front desk. I was just letting you know that your payment has been overdue for a few days. Can I go ahead and charge your card? Oh, sure, sure. My apologies. Go right ahead. I've just been so detached from the world lately. It slipped my head. No problem. Just remember that it's due every Friday, okay?

Then I joked. I haven't seen you in a while. Where have you been hiding? Oh, I've been floating around here someplace. Any calls for me? Not that I've gotten, no. Nothing from my son. No, sir. I felt a little bad for him because he didn't. didn't say anything for a few seconds after I answered. He eventually just told me to have a nice night and hung up. Another month passed and things went about the same. 401 would miss a payment.

I'd go up to the fourth floor to hear the same song playing at the end of the hall. I would knock, no answer. I would call and Franklin would pick up with the music in the background. I would would ask to charge his card, he would consent. He would ask if his son had called. I told him he had not. Now and then there would be some small talk. But one night in particular, he asked me, You looking up my name on Google. I was startled by the question because I had. The night shift was a boring job, and sometimes my curiosity would drive me to Googling guests. that seemed a little off. I never found much.

The occasional arrest record, a LinkedIn profile. Searching Franklin Waters hadn't turned up anything interesting either. Oh, wait, I take that back. I had found one thing. A police report behind a paywall, and from the brief abstract that I could access, it mentioned a child abuse case and a domestic disturbance on file.

I looked at Franklin's registration card. The city and state on his ID matched the area where the police report was filed. A week later, 401's payment was overdue again. It had become a routine by now that I would ascend to the fourth floor, knock on Franklin's door, and get no answer. By this time, however, I was growing frustrated with the situation. Why couldn't the man just remember when he had to make payments? I stood at his door and knocked longer than usual, louder than usual.

After a few minutes, I swiped my master key and the door unlocked. But when I tried to turn the handle, it was jammed. I tried a few times to no avail. Then I leaned in to peer through the peephole, even knowing. that was not how peoples worked. As I leaned in, the familiar Hall and Oat song was going into its final verse. I could only make out a blurry illumination coming from within the room as I leaned closer. I put my eye against the lens, hoping I could see something, anything in the light. Then something moved in front of the hole, blocked the light completely.

I jumped back. I didn't stick around any longer and retreated back to the office. I didn't even call 401 that night for payment. Every inch of me was rattling with adrenaline. My fingers shook. I left a note for my manager that I needed to take my vacation days as soon as possible. The next morning my manager called. We worked out the schedule so that I would be off for the next week. That would drain all of the vacation hours I had saved, but I didn't mind. I needed to get out of that hotel for a while. I took my vacation at home, drinking, hanging out with friends, catching up with Netflix.

My nerves were starting to unwind, and I felt like I would be ready to face the hotel again after my much-needed rest. But on the fourth day, my manager called. He talked very softly as he asked me how my vacation was going, asked if I had gone anywhere special. I could tell by the tone of his voice, nonetheless, that my time off was not what he was interested in. The reason I'm calling is about 401.

Oh? What about him? Did he miss another payment? You just have to call him sometime at night. He sleeps during the day. No, no. Well, you see, his credit card expired yesterday, so we slipped a letter under his door to contact us as soon as he could, but we didn't hear anything from him. So we went up to see if he was there and couldn't get in. Eventually, maintenance had to cut the lock. He was hiding in there? I asked, chuckling to myself as I grabbed a Capri sun from the refrigerator. No, no, he was dead.

I closed the fridge door slowly, staring out the back patio door. Dead? Yeah, I... Well, we think... suicide right now. We called the police out. The coroner came. We actually really need you to come down here, Andrew. When was the last time you talked to Mr. Waters? Right before I went on vacation. Well, I didn't talk to him, but I went to his room and heard him playing music. Someone was definitely moving around inside, but the door was jammed then too.

Andrew, listen. All the food in the room was spoiled. All those payment reminders we slipped under his door were just piled up. The coroner is here. He's saying that Franklin Waters must have been dead for a while. At least a month. What? I stammered.

Are you in his room now? Are you at the hotel? No, I'm actually in my car. I'm driving over to pick you up. Is that okay? Yeah. Okay. I hung up.

I hung up as fast as I could and closed the curtains. I was brimming with horror. Not because of the conversation. Not because I had spoken to a dead man. But because when my manager told me that he was in his car, I heard something in the background. His car radio, volume turned low, playing. When the hectic pace of life gets us down, it can be a refreshing change to leave everything behind and head off into the woods for a peaceful hike.

In this tale from author C.K. Walker, we meet a woman who does just that, but ends up encountering something that will shatter her world in more ways than one. Alexis Bristow and I will read the tale for you as we discover the answer to the question raised that day. Who killed Sarah Cooper? I live in a backwoods, crappy town in the Midwest. It's a boring, median-sized city carved out of the dense Ozarks of southeast Missouri. Growing up here had been difficult. I come from a large, violent family, and it was no secret that the Cooper kids got beaten.

Of course, lots of kids around here got beaten. It's just the kind of town it is. Since I wasn't allowed to have any friends, I'd concentrated on my grades so that one day I could escape to a four-year university on the other side of the state. I never thought that after graduating McNacumlaude from MSU, I would end up back in Harrington, and I might have killed myself if I was. if I'd known it. I often wondered about where I had slipped up long the way. I'd had a bright, exciting future in front of me, far away from Harrington and the drunken redneck family I'd left behind. But it didn't seem to be any one thing that brought me back.

It was just a series of missteps and bad luck. There was no one thing to blame, which made it all the more frustrating. teaching English at a community college was a far cry from the literary agent I dreamed of being. Every day that I woke up in Harrington felt like a failure. The only thing I enjoyed about this town was the crisp nature that surrounded it. My small home backed up right to the Ozarks, and every weekend I went hiking to the woods to clear my mind, always taking the same path by the river and always coming home refreshed and content. I considered them my mini-vocations, and they kept me sane.

But it was this very practice of mine that led to the single most horrific moment of my life. It could have been anyone in town who'd found her. Hundreds of people go out into those woods. But it wasn't just anyone. It was me. I don't know what came over me that Sunday, but for some reason I didn't want to hike my usual trail. Maybe it was a difficult week I'd had, or the fact that my hand was. was feeling so stiff that morning. I'd broken it ears before. Or perhaps it was because my

creepy stalker had been dancing on the fringes of his 100-yard legal restriction all week. Or maybe it was everything combined. For whatever reason, I decided on a change in my routine that day. Since I had brought my GPS, I decided to let my thoughts and body drift where they may. I wandered lazily and mindlessly, letting the fresh, cool air purify my soul, as it always did. I thought about the exam I was giving the following week. I thought about taking my dog Clara to puppy training classes. I thought about calling in another complaint about Doug the stalker. I thought about everything for a while, and then I thought about nothing.

After about an hour, I realized that I had stumbled onto a narrow, barely visible trail. The crisp, thin morning error was slowly giving way to its warm, heavier brother. I decided to follow the trail for a quarter mile or so, and then turn around and head back. According to my GPS, I was only about two miles from home, which wasn't that far at all. I lost the trail twice, but was able to pick it up again after a few moments both times. Just as I lost the trail for a third time, the tree line broke and I was suddenly standing in a small clearing.

I could tell immediately that there was something not right about this place. something ailing. The grass was yellowed and dead, and an old gnarled bur oak tree sat in the middle of the glade under thin, weak sunlight. This place was Creepsdown. I took out my phone and snapped a few photos hoping to somehow capture the eerie aura of the clearing.

I walked around the burr oak, stepping over thick, low-hanging branches. I raised my camera to take another photo when something that shouldn't be caught my eye. There was color between the leaves that had no place in the sickly yellow and sullen browns. It was a pink shoe. I walked closer, curious. I'm wondering if maybe kids used this place to smoke weed or drink.

But when I got closer, I saw the shoe was far too small for a teenager. It was the shoe of a young child. And there was a young child still in the shoe. I've felt many horrible things in my life. Failure, disappointment, pain. But I've never felt anything so horrible as I did when finding the bones of a small child shoved into the alcove of a tree. She was curled up in the fetal position,

her broken body much too large for the tiny little alcove. It was a wonder that she had fit there at all when she was more than just bones. Her clothes were mostly gone, at least on the exposed side, and her skull had cracks and angry indentations. I vomited on the trunk of the tree, and then I'm ashamed to say, I ran. I ran all two miles home. The need to share the burden of this knowledge with someone, anyone, was urgent in me to the point of hysteria. When I finally broke the tree line into my own backyard, I fell onto the grass and exhaustion. I stared up at the sun, trying to blind myself of the memory, but I could still

see that dead little girl. When I could finally breathe again, I took my phone from my pocket and dialed the police. They came within minutes, and I somehow found the strength to stand and meet them in the driveway. I explained everything that had happened in short, choked sentences, and handed them my GPS to show them where the body was. An officer wrapped a blanket around me, and another brought me bottles of water. After that, everything happened pretty quickly. I sat in my kitchen and watched out the window as crowds gathered and media arrived. The sound of helicopters came and went from overhead,

both police and news choppers alike, I'm sure. I stared out the window shade, praying that the crowds couldn't see me inside. As dusk began to settle, I found Doug in the gathered crowd of news correspond. and neighbors. He was at the very front of the police tape, and he watched both the spectacle and my window evenly. It was the first time he had ever actually broken the restraining order. I tried to find an officer, but I found my bed instead.

The long, emotional day gave way to a deep and sound sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I saw that media vans from St. Louis had arrived, and that the cops had set up roadblocks on my street. I called into work that day, and the next, and finally told them that I wouldn't be coming in for the rest of the week. I stayed home and worked on my novel, trying to ignore the circus our town had become. Identifying the little girl took almost two weeks, but someone in the media had named her Sarah. I saw the headline, Who Put Sarah in the Bur Oak Tree, land on my front porch one day.

It seemed the media was drawing comparisons between our case and the Who Put Bella in the Witch Eiff? home case. I never retrieved the paper. Finally, the coroner's office released a statement that the six-year-old girl had been identified, name withheld while they notified the family, and that the likely, though not conclusive, cause of death was blunt force trauma. Two days later, I was asked to come in and give a recorded official statement to the lead detective on the case. I went over everything I could remember from that day in extreme detail, even though. I've been seen Doug in the gathering crowd. The detective nodded his head throughout my statement, and then, when I was finished, pressed

stop on the recorder and left the room. I drummed my fingers on the table and absent-mindedly stared into the camera in the corner until he returned ten minutes later. The door opened, and the lead detective walked back into the room with a stranger in tell. He was tall, tanned, and sported slick-back white hair. I instantly disliked him. Miss Cooper, this is Dr. Wattner. Do you remember Dr. Wattner?

No. Should I? Not necessarily. Why am I still here? Because of Sarah. The detective sat down across from me. Is Sarah the girl in the tree? Sarah is your daughter.

The doctor answered. I don't have a daughter, I said, shaking my head. Jessica, we met several years ago when your daughter first disappeared. You blamed a man named Doug Ozinga for taking her. You were hysterical about it. Do you remember that? I know, Doug Ozinga. I have a restraining order against him, but that's where my part in this ends.

I don't have a daughter. Jessica, I'm going to show you some pictures now that might upset you. The doctor spread three large photos out in front of me. As soon as I saw their content, my hands began to shake, but I wasn't afraid. I was confused. I don't remember these pictures. I don't know who that is. The photos were of me with a little.

young blonde girl of about five. We were both smiling and hugging. Do you agree that the person in this picture is you? I continued to stare at the photos. There was no denying it. I still had some of the clothes I was wearing in the photo. Yes. And does the child in this picture look at all familiar to you? The answer was no. And yes. She was a stranger, but I felt like she was a stranger who I'd seen somewhere before. Memories began to tug at the tips of my synapsis, and I tried to let them in, but they were hazy and clouded.

Yes, I murmured. My eyes never leaving the page. The detective leaned forward in his chair. I'm so sorry, Jessica. The body that was in the tree has... been identified as your daughter, Sarah. I was lost and suddenly feeling terribly alone. What do I do?

I think you should take some more time talking to Dr. Wattner. You're going to need support now. And what about the little girl? I saw Dogo Zinga on the day the body was found. He was at the crime scene. Yes, I expected that. The detective stood up and Dr. Wattner followed. We'll return shortly. Here.

He handed me my phone. You should research your case. It might help you remember anything else you may be repressing. Would you like me to call your family? But I had no family. No, I'm just really scared and confused. I'm confused right now. I need to think. I understand.

The detective said as he followed Dr. Ratner through the door. Wait! I yelled suddenly, rising from my chair. The detective stopped and turned around. When are you going to arrest Dug Ozinga? Do you have any evidence on him yet? Jessica, Doug Ozinga doesn't exist. He closed the door behind him.

And I fell back into my chair. It's been almost two hours, and they haven't come back. And it makes me wonder why I'm still here. But I kind of think I know. I had a daughter who disappeared. Douglasinga doesn't exist. And I found a dead body in the woods. Our episode has come to an end.

Thank you for spending time with us at the No Sleep Podcast. If you would like to learn how you can hear the full-length version of this episode featuring many more stories, please visit the no-sleeppodcast.com and click on the season pass link. Purchasing a season pass will help support everyone who contributes to the podcast, and in return you'll get 25 full-length episodes and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. This is David Cummings. Thank you for listening,

and join us again for the next episode of the No Sleep Podcast.